Man On A Mission
by TheNeme
Summary: When a writer runs out of cigarettes and beer, there's only one thing to do: get pissy.


**Title: **Man On A Mission

**Author: **Neme

**Blood Type: **Wheat Toast

**Warnings: **Bad words. Phone abuse.

**Author's Notes: **…None, really. I'm not too incredibly fond of this piece. That's about it.

The phone was a privilege, not a right, and some people sought to abuse it, Eiri thought as he tried to ignore the hellish ringing filtering in through the air duct that connected his office to the living room. Eiri was only twenty-two years old and already a curmudgeon, tapping the keys on his VAIO in irritation, waiting for the noise to recede so that he could return to the blissful deflowering of one Nakamura Keiko.

The ringing stopped, only to be replaced by the incessant droning of his editor; she knew damned well that he didn't care about his deadlines or scheduled television appearances or whatever the _fuck _she was interrupting him with now. The digital timer ran out, cutting her off in mid-sentence. Though he felt slightly vindicated, Eiri knew that she would only call back.

The phone rang again not two seconds later. Why oh why had he let the Brat persuade him to switch from dial-up to cable? To shut him up, he reminded himself bitterly, stabbing his cigarette out viciously as he heard the machine switch on again.

It was time to start thinking about alternative methods of living. Now might be a very good time to become a recluse. Eiri reached for his pack of menthols. Empty. What was the fucking point of becoming a recluse if a man couldn't enjoy the simple pleasures of mentholated cigarettes and beer? …Which he was also out of. _Fuck _.

A trip to the convenience store was now in order and the girl who was invariably behind the counter every single time he went in always touched his hands. Goddamned irritating --

Eiri flung the office door open, just in time to hear the phone start ringing. Again. Did all of Japan have nothing better to do than call his apartment incessantly?

"What do you want?" he growled as he snatched up the receiver.

"Aniki! I need to know what you use to calm the swelling on a black eye."

Eiri counted to ten slowly before replying. "How did you get a black eye?"

Tatsuha paused, obviously uncomfortable with the line of questioning.

"You've got exactly five seconds before I hang --"

"I might have propositioned my math teacher, hoping for a better grade."

The question begging to be asked was obvious, but Eiri ignored it; the sooner he answered the question, the sooner he would be at the 7-11. "Steak," he answered shortly, pulling his coat out of the closet and shrugging it on.

"We don't have any!" Tatsuha exclaimed mournfully.

"Then I supposed you're fuck out of luck," Eiri replied, hitting the 'off' button and dropping the phone to the floor. The back panel splintered off and skidded across the hardwood floor.

Ten points, he thought viciously, glancing down at the handset, which was now beeping pathetically at him.

"Tadaima, Yuki!" Shuichi bounded through the door. Early.

Eiri kicked the phone's remnants out of his way miserably. He needed another cigarette and --

He blinked at the green and white package dancing in front of his eyes. It looked very much like a fresh carton. Was he having withdrawal symptoms already?

"Na, Yuki! I saw you were almost out, so I bought some on my way home! I also got some beer -- did you know that people will give you special treatment when you're famous? I didn't even have to show ID!"

Shuichi continued to prattle on -- there was something about lo mein and chicken in garlic sauce -- but Eiri had stopped listening, more interested in getting the beer into the refrigerator. Taking the cigarettes from his lover before they got crushed and rending the beer from him as well, he made his way into the kitchen.

Maybe the Brat wasn't so bad to have around after all.

"What happened to the phone?" Shuichi questioned, setting the take out boxes on the counter.

Eiri glared at the younger man as he lit a cigarette -- the first was always the best -- before responding. "It asked too many questions."

The smoke curled up to the ceiling, the beer was chilling in the fridge, Nakamura Keiko had been successfully de-virgined and the take out had had too much MSG, but Eiri considered the day to be just shy of recluse material.


End file.
